


i am poured out like water

by psikeval



Series: cabbage: a love story [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me about Calenhad, if you want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am poured out like water

In truth, Cullen isn’t sure why so many books were placed in his office. He doesn’t read them. Even with all the time in the world at his disposal, a luxury he’s never had and hardly expects, he can’t imagine seeking out dry histories of Thedas to while away the hours.

But soldiers come in to borrow them, sometimes, and tend to return them haphazardly, pushed in backwards or set on top of others, or left in the wrong section entirely. (Sorted by subject, subtopic, then by author; not all duties of young templars are as thrilling as one might imagine.) So on his bad days, when the finer points of writing elude his shaky hands and he can’t bear the noise of the yards or the keep, he stands and breathes and shelves the books properly.

There’s something soothing in the task. Not quite mindless or meaningless, just enough concentration required to serve as a tether. The Genitivi section is growing unwieldy.

“Hey,” Krem calls out from the doorway, and Cullen promptly drops _The Stone and Her Children_ on his foot. Given that his boot absorbs all the force of its weight, he’s nearly prepared to count himself lucky—but the book’s binding, it turns out, has not aged well, and upon impact half its pages go sliding out in every direction.

“Ah,” he says resignedly to the wreckage.

“Bad time?”

“No,” Cullen sighs, rubbing the start of a cold sweat from his forehead. Of course, of all possible times for a visit… “No, this is perfect. I was just planning to make a mess and need your help.”

There’s an amused scoff from Krem as they both kneel and start sweeping pages into a pile, more likely to be burnt than put together again. “What, mine specifically?”

“I anticipate disaster very well.” (So far from the truth that Cullen nearly smiles.)

Something in his tone makes Krem look up, eyes narrowed, closer than Cullen realized. He’s not wearing armor, just dark clothes and soft leather boots, and his hair is damp, soap-scented, a few strands trailing over his forehead. So many better reasons to feel light-headed than the chill in Cullen’s blood.

“Your hands are shaking.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He goes to stand and has to blink back the rush of dizziness, bracing his hand on the shelf. Nearby, but sounding somehow distant, muffled, Krem swears at him in Tevene.

“You’re white as a sheet, you idiot, sit down.” The strange, stumbling vertigo of being easily pushed a few steps to the side and into his chair. “What’s going on? D’you need a healer?”

Hard to hold his head upright; he always hates this part. “Nothing they can do.”

“Great. That’s not ominous-sounding.”

“No, it’s— I just mean— it’s.” _Focus._ “Lyrium withdrawal. Natural effects.”

Krem works at the fastenings of his armor, quick and careful, removing the heaviest pieces and setting them aside, tugging away Cullen’s gloves with a gentleness that’s mesmerizing. He gets a cup of water from the pitcher by the door and presses it into Cullen’s hands.

“Drink that,” he says gruffly, and watches while the order is slowly obeyed. When the empty cup is handed back, Krem sets it on some papers and crosses his arms. “All right, bed or fresh air?”

“Air.” He wouldn’t be able to sleep, and besides, the walls have a way of closing in.

“Need help?”

Cullen stands carefully, straightens and takes a step without incident. “Should be fine,” he murmurs, but can’t quite bring himself to refuse the steadying warmth of Krem’s hand on his back. The sunlight on the southeastern ramparts seems unreasonably bright, leaves Cullen squinting and shading his eyes but unwilling to go back. He walks a little further and leans his forearms heavily on the wall instead, looking out at the steep grey slopes of the Frostbacks.

It’s a beautiful summer day, windy and all but cloudless. The sun at his back is welcome and warm and Cullen shuts his eyes for a moment, draws in a breath and lets it go. “Now what?”

“Mm.” Krem has settled easily beside him, elbows braced on the wall, facing the sun with eyes half-lidded. “Tell me about Calenhad, if you want.”

 _Now?_ he means to ask, with all the disbelief he can muster, but is surprised to realize the reaction is reflex and little else. He’s tired and weak and cold in spite of the sun, still unsteady on his feet. Harder to fear the past when he can barely stay upright in the present.

He breathes in and out and in again, unsure how to even approach the edges of what’s always felt so vast and dangerous — but in the end, the words just start to slip out.

“I’d never killed anyone before.”

It’s not the right place to begin; it’s as good a place as any. Twenty years old, a true believer, still growing into his armor but certain he wielded the Maker’s own blade.

There was a senior enchanter who cared for the catacomb storage, always busy, determined to prove herself worthy of her post. When she attacked she bled to death on Cullen’s sword, not the Maker’s, nothing holy in the sound of her corpse shaken loose onto the floor.

And that was before the demons found them.

“Knight-Commander Greagoir swore it was only four days.” _Knight-Commander Greagoir is a fucking coward._ “Any longer and he would have had to answer to Seekers. I’m told Enchanter Wynne guessed closer to a week, from when the last templars retreated and locked the doors. For us, upstairs, it would have been longer.” Cullen’s fingers scrape too roughly through his hair, rigid with the effort of not shaking. “I drove myself half-mad trying to count it out and I’m still not sure.”

Long enough for the sickness to bleed from the walls themselves, sticky and foul, congealing masses spreading like infection from the Harrowing chamber.

“The demons couldn’t possess us, but they could find our dreams in the fade. So we tried not to sleep at first. That was a mistake. It only made us more— brittle. Susceptible to visions.”

A caged templar always prays. Like the movement of stars, the arc of a sword, predictable as the dawn. Fear, despair, a desperate desire to be anywhere beyond the Circle walls. For safety and love and family. So many prayers just waiting to be answered.

So much easier to swallow a lie when it silenced the screams of your brothers.

She had such a lovely smile, Surana. Slow and broad, knowing in a way that made his legs feel weak, and they never quite got that smile right but they came so close. It could have been her eyes, her hand on his wrist, brighter days when she flirted in the hall just to watch him blush. Those days could have lasted forever, without pain, without fear.

There are nights when Cullen thinks he would have gratefully surrendered, if only the demons had been able to give him her smile.

“I was the last one left,” he says, startled by the raw shuddering sound of his own voice. “The others all dead or lost. It was only a matter of time. I knew I was going to die, before she— the Hero of Ferelden. Before she arrived.”

(The disgust so clear on her face, when he begged her to slaughter them all. Painful to see; inexpressibly perfect. A dream would never have hated him.)

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No.”

Always easier to speak of the prison than confess what it made him. Not just the man clinging to hatred and mistrust but the skittish, frightened things beneath, night terrors and flinching at shadows and always, always retracing his steps. Examining decency for the demon’s lure beneath.

 _We cannot forget what we’ve seen,_ Meredith used to tell him. _As leaders, as templars, it would be weakness and folly. Keep the memories close. Remember what mages can become._

Krem nudges his arm, gentler than anything he deserves. “Hey. Still with me?”

“That night,” he says, too quickly. The end is in sight, a chance to feel like more than the ugliest pieces of his soul; hard not to sprint for it now. “I lost track of time and I panicked, became afraid it wasn’t real. I— I knew it was, of course, I didn’t think you were— all it takes is a single moment of doubt. The lyrium withdrawal only makes it worse.”

More to be said, probably. Certainly more to confess. But he feels hollowed-out and weary and hopes what he’s given is enough. Please, Maker, let it be enough for now.

“Right. Well.” Krem turns toward him, the curve of his posture almost shielding, one hand landing uncertainly between Cullen’s shoulders. “Shit.” 

A mild response, considering, but Cullen still flinches.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to hear this.”

“Hey.” A gentle, reprimanding tap on his spine. “Don’t, all right? It’s…” Krem shrugs, or gives the impression of shrugging. Mostly he’s just rubbing circles on Cullen’s back, like it helps him think. “I guess ‘nice’ isn’t the right word, but. Better this way, if you’d rather I found out now. So.” He clears his throat, just a little uncomfortable. “Thanks for being honest.”

There’s something impossibly strange in being thanked for _this_ , of all things. Fragile and bright, too close to his heart. Too much to examine, for now. Better to stand and let the tension ease beneath Krem’s fingers, allow the numb sense of disbelief to spiral through his limbs, that he could reach so far into the past and not be consumed.

“Besides, now I know you weren’t just scared that I grabbed your ass.”

Cullen snorts with really undignified laughter before he manages to muffle it by pressing a fist to his mouth. There’s no way his face isn’t turning pink, no matter how much he’d like to pretend. “Uh, no,” he finally says, “it— that was—”

“Try it again?” Krem suggests, grinning.

“Maybe not right now.”

 

\--

 

For the next few days Cullen keeps his distance, relatively speaking. It’s not that he’s trying to hide from what happened, or avoid Krem altogether. Even if that were possible—and it isn’t; the grounds of Skyhold might be large but they’re hardly limitless—he _wouldn’t_ stay away, is too hopelessly enamored by the quick flash of Krem’s smile every time their paths cross.

He’s only trying to allow some space between them. He knows he crossed a line, laid out too much of himself and his past, too soon for— whatever it is they are. More than Krem should be expected to hear, no matter how gracefully he listened at the time.

Still. When he looks up from placing pieces back on the chessboard he and Dorian set up in the garden (where Dorian so recently and soundly defeated him, before sauntering off to gloat) and sees Krem passing through the courtyard, Cullen can’t quite help himself.

He stands quickly, accidentally jostling the board with his leg, and is struck by sudden uncertainty regarding what he should even call Krem. Is the nickname meant to be reserved for the Chargers? Has he ever actually called Krem anything? Or does he just stare so much that there can be no doubt who he’s addressing? Maker, that’s an embarrassing thought.

Probably best to say _something_ , before he walks out of sight entirely.

“Uh,” he tries, coughs and raises his voice. “Cremisius?”

“Painful!” Krem calls out as he turns smoothly on his heel and starts walking back towards Cullen, already laughing. “So painful. Please, never again.”

“Krem.”

“Much better. Hello.” He leans in easily, one hand on Cullen’s hip, and brushes a kiss over his cheek that should _not_ make his heartbeat stutter because it’s barely— they’re not— it just _shouldn’t_. “What are you up to?”

“I— I have a meeting in an hour, with the Inquisitor. I was going to return to my office and finish reading the day’s reports, but it isn’t, uh. There’s no rush, I mean. If you wanted to— we could— that is, if you—” Far too late, Cullen forces himself to shut up. Even for him, that was terrible, and the flush creeping up the back of his neck is only made worse by the inexplicably fond look on Krem’s face.

There was a time, in the hopeful days of youth, when Cullen believed age would grant him grace in these situations. A sort of charm springing naturally from the passage of time. At the very least, an ability to form proper sentences around someone to whom he is deeply attracted.

“If you’d like to stay?” he says now, wretchedly, betrayed once more by boyish optimism.

“And give up an hour of drinking and those weird Fereldan pies? Yeah, sure.”

“Do you,” he starts, just as Krem’s eyes land on the chessboard and he groans.

“Oh, Maker’s asshole, not you too.”

“It’s—”

“ _A game of wits and strategy!_ ” Krem mocks, gesturing expansively at the table. “All life’s secrets, here on a board, revealed to us by tiny stupid pieces moving around. Truly amazing.”

“I, uh.” Cullen tries to cough instead of laughing, without notable success. “I was only going to say it’s not that bad.”

He means to add that of course they don’t have to play, that they could just as easily go to the tavern instead and eat what are, begging your pardon, a delicious Fereldan tradition and not the slightest bit _weird_ , but Krem is already sitting down and looking at the pieces as if they’re some terrible vegetable he’s sworn to suffer through.

“Right. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“Do you know the rules?”

“Oh, I think I’ve picked up enough.”

Krem idly cracks his knuckles, lets Cullen take white, and wins in five moves.

“What,” Cullen says dumbly, staring at the board.

“Great, right? It’s like cheating, except you’re allowed. And the best part is that the game’s over quickly, so you don’t have to keep playing chess.”

He knows Krem is smirking at him but can’t bring himself to look up, even for that. It was nothing like cheating, of course. It was _magnificent_. More efficient than any gambit Cullen’s ever seen, in all his years of playing—granted, a history that’s scattered at best, and not against the most skilled of opponents, but— Maker, he could beat Dorian with this, if he learned. It will only work once, and Dorian will probably be furious, but oh, the look on his face…

“Will you teach me?”

“What? No!” Krem pushes his boot against Cullen’s under the table, too gently for it to feel particularly reprimanding. “That was supposed to break your spirit, not encourage you. Gaze on your defeat. Wouldn’t you rather be dragged off and sullied in a dark corner somewhere?”

He huffs a laugh, ignoring the heat suffusing his face and the urge to say _yes, absolutely_ , and instead carefully rights the placement of his bishop and pawns. “Yes, I’ve always wanted to meet with the Herald of Andraste looking like I was just ravished in a barn.”

“Well, now you’re just giving me ideas,” Krem drawls with an unrepentant grin that might make Cullen nervous if there were any real intent behind it — but it’s only teasing, clear enough that even he can tell the difference. He’s not gotten the impression that either of them want to rush things on that score, for which he can only be grateful.

Across the table, Krem sighs and retrieves his knight, which hadn’t so much played a part in his victory as done a vigorous dance across the board to celebrate it.

“Fine, I’ll show you _once_ ,” he warns, “and then I’m building a little tower out of the pieces.”

Actually, Krem resets the board again and again, complaining and making a comfortable tangle of their feet, until Cullen has memorized that gambit and two more besides, but neither of them bother mentioning it.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for a while -- I need to do a major fandom switch to write my Yuletide fic & try caring about things that aren't Dragon Age, but if anyone needs me I'll be crying on [tumblr](http://psikeval.tumblr.com) ♥
> 
> (Mate in five is most likely unimpressive, but Cullen doesn't know fancy chess and neither do I.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I Am Poured Out Like Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115795) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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